Blog Stats

Top Posts

The year was 1993. My mothers’ soft and gentle voice had just finished reminding me of the words of Ruth Gillis’ “I Walk Alone But in the Whole”, as was our pre-bedtime ritual.

Having fallen asleep to my mothers’ voice, I did not hear what I would later overhear being told too my father, who had just returned home to find his only child huddled over his wifes’ lifeless and bloody body before calling the police.

“He greeted her here,” the officer said as he pointed towards their bedroom door, a small portion of blood, mixed with skin tissue, still wet to the touch and sliding down towards the floor as he spoke.

“It appears as if he entered through the bedroom window and waited for her to come to bed.” He said.

BANG!!!

My mind raced as the noise ripped through my ears, which were now ringing. I quickly got up, ran towards my bedroom door, opened it and looked down the hall. My mother was laid out on the floor… still… her dead eyes turned in such a way that I felt as though she was calling for me to help her.

As if answering her call I ran too her and, when I reached her, stopped in my tracks. In the doorway was a man, dressed in black. His face was covered, a cruel act performed by a man too afraid to be seen by the person his actions would leave deprived of both a mother and the ability to hear.

BA…!!!

The second shot, hitting my mother for no other purpose then to ensure that she did not get up, was the one that silenced my world. I couldn’t even hear myself crying as I tried to shield my mothers’ body from any further harm with my own, much smaller, frame.

“But darkness came; my love is gone,
My soul is filled with tears.
Now I must face each day alone
In battle with my fears.”